Poem of the Month

A Christmas Carol

So now is come our joyful feast,

Let every man be jolly;

Each room with ivy leaves is dressed,

And every post with holly.

Though some churls at our mirth repine,

Round your foreheads garlands twine,

Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,

And let us all be merry.

Now all our neighbors’ chimnies smoke,

And Christmas blocks are burning;

Their ovens they with baked meats choke,

And all their spits are turning.

Without the door let sorrow lie,

And if for cold it hap to die,

We’ll bury it in a Christmas pie,

And evermore be merry.

Now every lad is wondrous trim,

And no man minds his labor;

Our lasses have provided them

A bagpipe and a tabor.

Young men and maids, and girls and boys,

Give life to one another’s joys;

And you anon shall by their noise

Perceive that they are merry.

Rank misers now do sparing shun,

Their hall of music soundeth;

And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,

So all things aboundeth.

The country-folk themselves advance,

For crowdy-mutton’s come out of France;

And Jack shall pipe and Jill shall dance,

And all the town be merry.

Ned Swatch hath fetched his bands from pawn,

And all his best apparel;

Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn

With droppings of the barrel.

And those that hardly all the year

Had bread to eat or rags to wear,

Will have both clothes and dainty fare,

And all the day be merry.

Now poor men to the justices

With capons make their errands;

And if they hap to fail of these,

They plague them with their warrants.

But now they feed them with good cheer,

And what they want they take in beer,

For Christmas comes but once a year,

And then they shall be merry.

Good farmers in the country nurse

The poor, that else were undone;

Some landlords spend their money worse,

On lust and pride at London.

There the roisters they do play,

Drab and dice their land away,

Which may be ours another day;

And therefore let’s be merry.

The client now his suit forbears,

The prisoner’s heart is eased;

The debtor drinks away his cares,

And for the time is pleased.

Though others’ purses be more fat,

Why should we pine or grieve at that;

Hang sorrow, care will kill a cat,

And therefore let’s be merry.

Hark how the wags abroad do call

Each other forth to rambling;

Anon you’ll see them in the hall,

For nuts and apples scrambling;

Hark how the roofs with laughters sound,

Anon they’ll think the house goes round;

For they the cellar’s depths have found,

And there they will be merry.

The wenches with their wassail-bowls

About the streets are singing;

The boys are come to catch the owls,

The wild mare in is bringing.

Our kitchen boy hath broke his box,

And to the dealing of the ox

Our honest neighbors come by flocks,

And here they will be merry.

Now kings and queens poor sheep-cotes have,

And mate with everybody;

The honest now may play the knave,

And wise men play at noddy.

Some youths will now a mumming go,

Some others play at rowland-hoe,

And twenty other gameboys moe;

Because they will be merry.

Then wherefore in these merry days

Should we, I pray, be duller?

No, let us sing some roundelays

To make our mirth the fuller.

And whilst we thus inspired sing,

Let all the streets with echoes ring;

Woods, and hills, and everything

Bear witness we are merry.

-George Wither

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